Shadow Broker
by Xazz
Summary: 1925, Chicago, there's a killer on the loose and the Chicago PD is powerless to catch them so they call in Detective S, a detective from L.A. who's yet to lose a criminal. But for Malik this might be the one that got away.
1. The Windy City

100th story!

Please see the bottom note for full disclosure.

* * *

This city was a far cry from the one Malik had left a few days ago. Chicago was windy and chill from Lake Michigan, nothing like Los Angeles which was warm even in winter. But he was here now and here he'd stay for a while, until the case was done. He'd been called up here on a favor for the commissioner. Malik had been called because he was good, one of the best actually. He let other people call him the best though, he never claimed that himself. After seeing the things Malik had seen he'd never claim to be brave or the best ever again. War changed a man, people didn't get that usually though.

There was an officer waiting for him when he got off the train, putting on his hat as he walked, his coat already on. It was cooler here than he liked, though the officer didn't seem to notice. Steam from the train billowed under the platform as Malik neared him. They looked around, probably for him and he went right up to them.

"Are you Detective Sayf?" they asked, accent thick and colloquial.

"I am," he nodded. "I've got a bag on the train," he added.

"Of course," and the officer couldn't stop staring. Malik thought nothing of it, used to it now. Even in Los Angeles a brown skinned detective wasn't every day. Here it was a down right impossible, not in this place, and never this far north. He'd just been lucky, right place, right time, with the right know how and an understanding chief in his station who wasn't afraid to have a brown man as a detective. He'd heard every slur and slander and was used to being stared at. The officer jerked his eyes away and cupped his mouth with his hand facing to their side, "Benny! The detective's got a bag. Get it," and Benny, a big man in a dark officer uniform went towards the baggage car. "I'm officer Gerald Hopper," he held out his hand.

"Officer," Malik nodded and shook his hand "You'll be taking me to meet the commissioner?"

"Yessir," he said and was doing how honest best to not stare at Malik and his different features.

"Good," Malik said, ignoring the look. Then officer Hopper led him away from the platform and out of the station to a car at the sidewalk.

Chicago wasn't a city at all like Los Angeles. It was older and colder and much more compact. The styles here were also different, though not much. In California people wore clothes for heat and while they did wear pants knickers were becoming amazingly popular and the flapper dresses were getting higher and higher. Sometimes he saw them almost high enough to break modesty.

Malik always kept his eyes up, straight ahead. His time in the army had taught him that. Keep your eyes forward and what you needed to be looking at, and not on things you shouldn't be looking at. Looking elsewhere while in the trenches you could miss something, the Germans could be running for you, or they might be calling a retreat. Eyes on what you needed to see, and that didn't include gams, no matter how pretty or soft they were.

They arrived to the station as clouds were gathering on the horizon over Lake Michigan. They parked and Malik got out himself onto the sidewalk, officer Hopper jumping out of his side after almost getting hit by a top down car driven by teenagers.

"Just this way sir," he said. "The city is putting you up in a place, Benny'll take your bag there for you," officer said helpfully.

"Great," Malik said stoically. Hopper showed him inside and past the bustling front room full of mostly petty thieves. He was led up two flights of stairs to a series of offices. The commissioner had a big office on a corner with windows.

The officer knocked and when the commissioner said to come in her opened the door. "Sir, the detective from Los Angeles is here," he said.

"Great, send him in." Hopper backed out and ushered Malik in and closed the door behind him. The commissioner was half way standing when he saw Malik. "Where's detective S?" he asked, confused.

Malik looked behind him, there was just him. "That's me," Malik said, "Malik al-Sayf, detective with the LAPD," he held out his hand. "You're commissioner Robert?"

"Yes I am," and he shook Malik's hand. Robert was massive with a huge chest and a bald head, with scars on it. His suit was sharp though, the shoulders still wide, unlike Malik who had "Richard didn't tell me you were a…" the slur was on his tongue but he stopped himself, "weren't white," he said.

"There's a reason they call me S, instead," he shrugged. After the army he didn't hear rude slurs anymore. He'd heard them all and then some. He'd been called every middle eastern slur and brown slur and black slur. It was all water on the duck's back.

"Right, well… I'm sure you'll handle yourself," Robert said.

"I can," he agreed.

Suddenly the door was shoved open. "Sir-

"Damnit Sibrand I'm busy with our new detective," Robert spat at the blonde man who was in a police uniform but he had a lieutenant's markings.

"Sorry, sir," sergeant Sibrand said, "but another one just showed up. He's more than a little angry too," Sibrand had an accent, but not from Chicago, he sounded like he was from New York, or Detroit, Malik couldn't tell, they all sort of sounded the same to him.

"Another one? Damn it all. Well," he turned to Malik, "this is what we sent you for. Lieutenant Sibrand, this is our newest detective from Los Angeles, he's going to be on point with this case. You find out what he needs and you get it, I don't care what it is or what he's got to say; you do it."

"You got it, sir," Sibrand nodded.

"Good. Sorry we can't stay and chat detective, but I'm sure you're itching to get started."

"I came here to work, sir," Malik said.

"Good. Go with Sibrand. He'll get you everything you need. Make sure you tell him."

"Thank you, sir," Malik said and then turned from the commissioner and followed Sibrand out of the office.

"Uh, just follow me," Sibrand said and unlike Robert was staring at him openly. Malik just blinked at him, undisturbed, and then Sibrand turned on his heel and walking quickly. Malik kept pace with him and they went downstairs and out the front door and around the side to Sibrand's car. Malik watched the city as they drove, letting Sibrand talk and just soaking in this new city.

—

The crime scene was already contained when they got there. Malik stepped out of the car, the clouds boiling over head, sweeping into the city from Lake Michigan. The officers standing guard let him and Sibrand through. The murder had happened in an old pub that now only sold food. As Malik walked over the thresh hold he tapped the toes of his shoes on the floor as if to dislodge dirt from them and be respectful. It also told him that under the floor was a big, hollow space. He didn't think for a second there wasn't a speakeasy under this floor. Good to know, he was going to need a drink later.

The deceased was in one of the booths, sitting at a plate of food and what looked like wine but when Malik sniffed it was actually juice. He was a well dressed man with his hat on the table in easy reach and his cutlery was still in his hands. Everything about the scene was fine and it looked like the man was about to continue eating his steak and potatoes save for the fact that someone had stabbed him in the throat and blood spilled down his front, staining his fine shirt and waist coat red and brown. Whoever had killed him knew what they were doing as it was one swift incision on the throat that seemed to have not only cut into his trachea but also more than clipped the jugular and Malik was sure had also entered the facial cavity from the amount of blood.

Malik stood on the other side of the table of the deceased, hands in the pockets of his coat, face expressionless. Sibrand stood next to him, clearly disgusted.

"And they're all like this?" Malik asked.

Sibrand started at Malik's words after a long silence. "Yes, sir," he said. This was why Malik was brought here after all, to catch whoever was killing these people. They were killed by the same people, same method of death. Malik had seen pictures, but the black and white didn't do the real gore justice.

"Who's this?" Malik asked.

"We're trying to figure it out now," Sibrand said.

Malik nodded slowly and finally took his hands out of his pockets and tugged off his hat. "Okay," he said, playing with the brim as he spoke. "I'm going to need some things."

"You just tell me, sir, I'll get them for you," Sibrand said eagerly.

"I need to know _who_ this is. I need the case files for all the previous murders. Any lists of suspects. A list of who was here in this room at the time of the murder. The autopsy reports for all the murders including this one. A catalog of knives. And a kriminalist," Malik said, flicking the brim of his hat with his middle finger.

"A kriminalist?" Sibrand asked, confused.

"Yeah, a kriminalist," Malik said. He had one back home. A sharp kid named Ezio from old money back east trying to make it on his own. After the commissioner opened the first crime lab Malik had capitalized on it and unlike several other detectives or officers, who didn't see the point of it, Malik saw the help it could really be to the force. He and Ezio were pretty much thick as thieves and where others didn't use what Ezio knew and was quickly learning Malik was always giving him things to do. Even after just a year Malik couldn't even imagine what his life would be like without a kriminalist to back him up. It just made his job _so_ much easier.

"Uh…" Sibrand clearly didn't know what a kriminalist was.

"It's someone who comes onto a crime scene and picks up data, helping us track who did it and find the killer faster," Malik said.

"Never heard of one, sir," he admitted. "I don't even know where to get one."

"Try a college," Malik said.

"Okay," Sibrand nodded slowly. "Is that all?"

Malik thought a moment, "And some bourbon."

Sibrand blinked at him, "You realize it's still the prohibition, right, sir?"

"Kid," and really Sibrand was younger than him, in his mid or late twenties at much, "I fought in the War. Do you actually think I care what some politicians in suits think about my right to drink?" and then he tapped the toe of his shoe on the ground again. The floor was distinctively hollow. By the look on Sibrand's face he knew quite well what was under there, "I like it straight," and Sibrand didn't tell him no.

—

Sibrand had set Malik up with the bio-science department head of the Northeastern Illinois University. Malik didn't even know what bio-science _was_, but apparently he could get in touch with a kriminalist through him, or something like them. It had taken a week, in which time Malik had read through all the case files and was seriously considering sending a telegram back home and asking for Ezio to be sent along. But he didn't have to resort to that thankfully.

Professor Forman was a nice man. White, a bit portly, slowly going bald, wore a patterned bow tie and still sore suspenders, which were rapidly going out of fashion. He smiled when he saw Malik and stood up to shake his hand. Malik appreciated not being looked at strangely by the man.

"So Detective Sayf-

"Malik is fine, sir," Malik said. He was used to people not saying his last name right, but that didn't mean it was any less annoying.

"Malik," Professor Forman nodded. "The lieutenant told me you were looking for a kriminalist?"

"That's the hope, yes," Malik nodded.

"Well, I have to tell you we don't really… have a field for that here," Malik frowned slightly, "But, you're in luck."

"I am?" he asked carefully.

"Yes. There's a young man in one of my classes, brilliant boy, bit odd, but very helpful. He's studying abroad here this year from the University of Lausanne."

Malik had to ask, "And where _is_ the University of Lausanne?"

"Switzerland," Professor Forman smiled at him. "The university houses the School of Police Science, of which he is a student of," and Malik momentarily thought of having to deal with some Swede and a language barrier was just going to be annoying. "I set up a meeting for the two of you. He was very excited to know that you were interested in his field."

"Oh, thank you," Malik said though wasn't feeling _nearly_ as excited. "So, where is it?"

Professor looked at the clock, "He should be there now," he said. "There's a classroom, just down the hall. He's very punctual," professor Forman was smiling still.

Malik repressed a groan. This was the best it was going to be it seemed. He might just have to suck it up. "Okay," Malik nodded, "Thank you professor," and he shook the older man's hand.

"Of course Malik, let me know if there's anything else you need."

"I will," Malik nodded. Not. He rolled his eyes as he left the office and went to the classroom, which was actually a lecture hall. It was empty save for a young man sitting on the teacher's desk, his back to Malik, feet on a chair, reading a book. "Excuse me," Malik called, "I'm looking for a Swede."

The student twisted, "I'm not a Swede," he said. And no. No he was _not_. He was an Arab and Malik was actually surprised. He hadn't been expecting _that_. "Are you Detective Malik al-Sayf?" and he had a strange accent, not quite Arabic, not quite Swiss and yet not one from Chicago either, but distinct and colored the English obviously. Malik liked it regardless. He especially liked the way he said his name, properly.

"Yes, I am," Malik said, walking over to him.

"Professor Forman didn't tell you anything about me did he?" the kid asked. He wore a brown leather jacket over a pair of slacks and a simple white shirt, a white scarf was folded up next to him. He put his book on his scarf, it was some medical journal.

"No," Malik agreed. The kid had fine features, like he was still filling out his cheek bones and jaw, and his eyes were the strangest color. They looked the color of butterscotch.

"I'm Altair," he said and held out his hand. "Altair ibn-Umar ibn-La'Ahad."

Malik smiled slightly, he could like this. "That's quite a mouthful," Malik said.

"Yeah, so the Americans tell me," Altair sighed, but also smiled.

"Where're you from? Not from Switzerland obviously."

"No, I just go to school there," Altair agreed, "I'm from Syria. I got a full tuition for Lausanna though. I'm spending a year here to study bio-science."

"What _is_ bio-science?" Malik asked.

"Like medicine, only not. I'm sure the name'll change eventually, it's terribly confusing," Altair rolled his eyes. "It's the study of the body, but not for healing purposes. Morticians would fall under bio-science."

"Ah," and then he eyed Altair a moment, "you've a good grasp on English."

"My _omy's_ American," he explained with a shrug. "_I could speak Arabic if you wanted,_" and Malik smiled.

"_Haven't used this in a while. Forgive me if I sound awful,_" Malik said.

"_I don't think you sound awful_," Altair said.

_"How old are you anyway? You look like you should still be in high school."_

Altair laughed,_ "I'm nineteen, thanks."_

Malik stared at him a moment, _"I feel very old,"_ he said.

_"What? Why?"_

_"I forget that there are people who were born after the nineteenth century,"_ he sighed.

_"Oh… You don't look that old,"_ Altair was quick to say. "_I would never have thought-_

Malik waved him away, "_It's fine. I'm not some delicate lady who needs to be pampered about her age. Now, business."_

_"Right,"_ and Altair turned even _more_ attentive, how that was possibly Malik didn't even know. He liked this kid though, he could get a conversation out of Malik, which was saying something since Malik didn't talk much really, not unless he had something to say, and hated small talk. Maybe it was the use of his mother tongue, or the fact that Altair sort of reminded him of a young him, bright eyed and untouched by the horrors of War. Boys like Altair would never have to know about those sorts of horrors, see their friends gunned down by German soldiers. The War was over and there would never be one as bloody and gruesome as it again. Thank God.

_"So you're going to school to be a kriminalist?_" Altair nodded, _"So you know about procedures and things like that?"_ more nodding, _"Okay. Well, have you heard of the recent murders?"_ and Altair's eyes went suddenly bright and then back to normal. He smiled as he nodded. Malik wrote it off. _"I have a kriminalist back home in L.A. he usually helps me but, obviously, he's not here. I'm looking for someone to help me with this murder spree."_

_"I'd be honored,"_ Altair said.

_"I don't have a lab for you-_

_"I can use the one here at school,"_ Altair was quick to alleviate his worry._ "I mean, it'll do,"_ he added.

_"Okay,"_ Malik nodded. _"I'll have to talk with the commissioner about letting you see the case files. Can you come down to the station?"_

_"Yes,"_ Altair nodded eagerly. This kid was seriously something else. But not in a bad way he supposed. _"When do you want me to stop by?"_

_"Tomorrow probably. I've already reviewed the case files. Come by and I'll get you up to speed on what's going on if Robert says so."_

_"If not?"_

_"Well, I guess we'll just… work around that,"_ Malik wasn't above just ignoring Robert. He'd been brought on specifically for this case and if the commissioner was going to make his life difficult than he'd make it difficult right back.

_"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow then,"_ and Altair slid off the table grabbing his book and scarf. _"Nice meeting you Malik."_

_"Likewise," _and they shook hands again.

—

After getting the all clear from the commissioner Altair was officially on board. Malik had all the case files back in his hotel room, so that's where they ended up. Altair sat perched on one of the arm chairs as Malik took the files from a safe and put them on the coffee table. "Here they are," Malik said.

"Great," Altair took the top one.

"You can read them all you want here, make notes if you want, but you can't take them with you," Malik said.

"Sure," and Altair dug into his knapsack and pulled out a ruled notebook and a pencil as he flipped open the first file on his thighs. "Can I see any of the bodies?" he asked, looking at Malik with his strange colored eyes.

"No, sorry," Malik frowned. "Hate to say it but you'll have to wait for a new one to show up."

"I see," Altair said, looking back down at the papers. "When was the oldest murder?"

"That we know are linked? I'd say from last August. The pattern's pretty regular honestly."

"It is?" Altair glanced up at him.

"Yeah. About every six weeks another body shows up, just like this one." It was March now, there were six of these bodies, all with the same stab wounds, one through the neck and up into the head, cutting into the trachea, the right jugular, and clipping the spin. The person doing the killing was also probably left handed, to be able to cut the right jugular. They were also strong, since none of the men they'd killed were small, and even through the jugular they'd have to hold them still long enough to bleed them out enough to kill them.

"Hmm," Altair said, "Any connections between them? List of suspects?"

"Not that I can see, and yes, they're in the files. Suspects are all different on all the murders."

"Well that's helpful," Altair said, he was taking notes in his notebook unerringly. They sat in silence after that, Altair making notes, and sometimes chewing on the end of his pencil, Malik sat in the other chair quietly. He liked quiet, it made thinking easier. Then Altair closed the file and picked up a new one, and then two more and flipped them open. "Found your connection," he said.

"Huh?"

"How they're all connected. They're part of the Chicago Outfit."

"… They're mobsters?" that was news to Malik.

"Yeah. You didn't know?" Altair asked, looking at him.

"I've been here literally a week," was really his only excuse.

"The police didn't tell you?"

"No… they didn't," Malik said slowly. "Are you okay to stay here for a bit?"

"Yeah, sure. What is it?"

"I need to go rip open the police commissioner for putting me on mobster murders and not telling me," he growled and got to his feet. He missed the look in Altair's eyes as he left.

—

Robert saw him immediately. He was smoking a cigarette when Malik walked in. "You have something to say to me?" he asked, not even bothering with pretending to be pleasant. He didn't deal with mobsters. He just _didn't_. He had a few rules when it came to who and what he did on the force, and one of them was that he didn't work for the mob, or people who were in the mob's pocket. He didn't investigate mob murders or crimes either. That wasn't what he wanted anything to do with.

He'd joined the force after the War to _help_ people. Not mob people, but normal people. People who had nothing and needed a clean cop who wouldn't fall into the mob's pocket or any of the gangs in L.A. Richard knew this and specifically didn't give him cases related to gangs because unless they were special circumstances Malik wouldn't take them. He just would refuse them, and Malik was too good at his job for Richard to ignore his whims.

"Excuse me?" Robert asked, raising a brow at him.

"These murders," Malik scowled at him.

"What about them?"

"Their part of the Chicago Outfit."

"Oh," Robert said slowly. Clearly Richard had told Robert about his stance on investigating criminal murders. He'd chosen to ignore it apparently.

"Give me a reason not to pack my bag and get on a train back to L.A. right now," Malik growled.

"We need you here," Robert said and put out his cigarette. "We've been on this case for months, and have_nothing_. Richard _assured_ _me_ you'd be able to crack it. And that you didn't take gang related cases-

"Which you chose to ignore," Malik wasn't happy in the slightest.

"It was that or let some lunatic go around killing innocent people."

Malik nearly _lost it_. Instead his jaw just clenched so hard his teeth hurt. Innocent? _Innocent?!_ His brother had been _innocent_, but that hadn't stopped L.A. gangs from shooting up the shop front he'd been in with tommy guns killing him and four other people, but not the man they _had_ been shooting at. Malik had been _innocent_before he signed up to be sent to Europe to fight the Germans and put on the front as an expendable colored person and see horrors no man should have to see. The girl who'd been raped and killed by L.A. gangs had been_innocent_ and Malik had put her killer behind bars. The man who was being bullied by the mob and had his son killed by them as a warning had been _innocent_. Malik could keep going in his head and every case he'd ever worked was littered with innocents caught in the crossfire of gangs and the mob. He _didn't work mob murders,_because _none_ of them were innocent.

"No," Malik said.

"What?"

"_No_," and then he walked towards the door. "I'm getting on a train tomorrow morning," and walked out.

"Detective!" Robert called and went after him. "Detective," he grabbed Malik's arm. "We need you," he said.

"My precent needs me too commissioner," Malik said, yanking his arm back. "I don't work mob murders. Especially not for guys like Capone," he practically spat the name out.

"What can I do to convince you?"

"Nothing. I'm going to phone L.A. tonight, tell Richard I'm coming home."

"I could order you to stay."

"I'm only here by request," Malik reminded him, "You don't own my badge or my time. I'll bring the case files back before I leave. Good day commissioner," and then he walked out.

—

He opened the hotel door. Altair was where he'd left him going over files. "Pack it up," Malik announced.

"What?" Altair looked up, confused.

"Pack it up. I'm off the case, and so are you."

Altair stared at him, "Why?"

"Because I don't do mob cases," Malik growled. "So pack it up."

"You don't do mob kills?"

"No. I'm leaving in the morning and need to have this stuff back at the station by then," he grabbed the file in Altair's lap and put it back on the table with the rest of the stack and gathered them up. "Sorry for inconveniencing you," he added as he went to the safe.

"It's… no trouble," Altair said as Malik put the files in the safe and closed it. "I just wanted to be useful," he frowned and when Malik looked he actually looked a bit upset.

"Sorry about that," Malik told him. "I didn't mean to get your hopes up."

"No. It's okay. I let myself get them up," he sighed. "Anything that would make you stay?"

"Unless this case suddenly turned into a civilian matter I don't see much hope for me sticking around."

"So… what? If some mac got popped you'd stay and figure it out?"

"Long and short of it, yeah," Malik nodded. "It's just how I work. I refuse to help the mob," and Altair's eyes brightened a little.

"You seem pretty upset about the entire thing. Bad experience?" he ventured.

"My brother got caught between two warring gangs. He's dead now because of it."

"Oh… I'm sorry," Altair looked like he hadn't brought it up.

"Was a long time ago," Malik said. "I've mostly gotten over it," he had too. Kadar had died over ten years ago. Malik had seen a lot more death since then, it helped him deal with the fact honestly.

"Still, that's awful. But it explains why you only work in that area."

"Yeah," Malik nodded, "Thanks for stopping by," he added.

Altair's mouth became thin a moment then he stood up, "Sorry I couldn't be more help," he apologized. "Nice meeting you," and he shook Malik's hand.

"Same," and he walked Altair to the door and showed the kid out. Once the door was closed Malik turned back to the hotel room smiled in a helpless sort of way only now having noticed Altair had ordered room service.

That little shit.

—

Malik groaned. Someone needed to stop that banging. Right now, before he killed someone. It was early, the alarm clock hadn't gone off yet, and his train didn't leave until ten thirty. Too early. Too loud, and he was regretting finding that speakeasy and enjoying some bourbon that was definitely too expensive. Too much of a good thing was a bad thing apparently.

The banging continued. He rolled out of bed, rubbing his face and pulling on a shirt as he stumbled to the door. He didn't care, if someone was going to wake him up at- he checked the clock quickly, seven am, they were going to have to deal with him still mostly undressed. He opened the door to officer Hopper, who looked surprised to see him like he was. "Detective," he said.

"What is it officer?" he groaned.

"There's been a murder."

"Don't care, I don't work on behalf of the mob," and he made to close the door.

"The person who was murdered was a twenty year old kid," and Malik paused. Twenty year old kid. For some ludicrous moment he thought of Altair. He hadn't known the kid long, but if something had happened. "Same method as the others. It's the same guy."

Malik looked at him, "Give me a minute, I need to get dressed," he said and closed the door.

—

The crime scene was a mess. There were several police cars there and the body had apparently been left on the sidewalk, which was different. All the other bodies had been positioned upright, usually in pubs or restaurants, eating. Apparently one had been in a speakeasy, and they'd dragged the body out back before calling it in. This didn't fit the normal pattern, but it was something, and the person (as far as Malik knew) was just some mac with no mob ties.

The poor guy was spread eagle on the ground and as per Malik's request to any new bodies found, hadn't been moved, or touched in any way, and the area around it as well. He pulled on a pair of gloves before gently inspecting it, crouched next to the guy. They were around twenty, probably a college student, wore a buttoned shirt and slacks, and were pale with golden hair. It wasn't Altair. It made Malik glad. He tipped the head back and saw the puncture wound, that had led to a massive puddle of blood under them. It was exactly the same as the others.

"Someone go to the Northeastern University," Malik said, looking over his shoulder.

"Why?" Hopper asked.

"I need something there."

"What?"

"A bio-science student named Altair," and he stood up. He was officially on a job, which meant two things. One, this would get solved as soon as possible, and other other came in the form of a small, brass, case. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a match up against his mouth. He only smoked when he was on a case, helped him think, and made people go away if they saw him busily smoking. "Tell him to bring his kit," he said as he exhaled.

* * *

Okay so this IS NOT THE END. The thing is though that I WILL NOT be posting this on ff, at all, other than this chapter. If you want to read the rest of this, including the already posted second and third chapter you need to go to my writing blog which is shotgunsandstars on Tumblr OR my AO3. AO3 stands for Archive Of Our Own, which is a fic site without rating restrictions.


	2. Dead Men Tell No Tales

Kinda a reminder for ff that this exists and if you'd like to read the rest of chapter two and the rest of the (rather lengthy at this point) story to visit my AO3 (please just google AO3 if you don't know what it is, don't ask me what it is) which is the same username as here. Or my writing blog shotgunsandstars over on Tumblr.

* * *

A new cop car pulled up to the curb and out of the passenger side stepped Altair. He looked ridiculously out of place in his leather jacket and an out of place looking pants that looked like they belonged on a construction worker and not a college student. He had a tackle box with him as he looked over the scene, his funny butterscotch eyes wide like a deer in front of a pair of headlights, absorbing it.

Then he bounded forward after catching sight of Malik, an officer called after him as he slid between the two of them but Malik waved them off. "Hi," Altair said, "never thought I'd see you again," and he looked very hard like he was repressing a smile. What had professor Forman said? He was a strange kid? That was for sure.

"Looks like it's going to rain," Malik wasn't in the mood for pleasantries, "Lets get to work."

"Right," Altair shifted gears abruptly, becoming somber and held back. "Who's our John?" he asked as he went to the body and crouched, putting his tackle box next to him and opening it.

Malik took out the kid's wallet from his coat pocket and pulled out the college I.D. which he'd looked at several times now, "Anthony White. Student at Chicago State. He's a third year," and Malik put it and the wallet away, pulling out his cigarette case again.

"Anything else that's interesting?" Altair asked, looking at Anthony's hands with his own sheathed in skin tight, black, leather, gloves. Ezio wore similar ones at crime scenes, to not contaminate the body or the area with his finger prints. Though that was in L.A. there were no fingerprint databases here in Chicago. It was a good practice though, seemed Altair's school taught him a thing or two.

"Not really," Malik admitted and lit a cigarette. "It's a lot like the others except that unlike them Anthony has no criminal ties," he'd been sure to check.

"Hmmm," Altair put Anthony's hand down and opened his mouth briefly, "Well he has marks on his hands. He fought off his attacker, or tried to. Also didn't you say the normal pattern was six weeks between kills?" he looked up at Malik.

"Yeah," Malik agreed exhaling smoke.

"This was what? Little over a week?"

"Something like that," Malik frowned and sucked on the cigarette. "It's out of pattern. Maybe it was a mistake."

"This guy make mistakes?" Altair looked back at the body.

"Dunno, second time I've seen his work. Maybe it was a botch job. The others were professional, cold. This was like he did it in a hurry, wasn't planned like the others."

"You can tell all that from just looking at a body?" Altair was both impressed and… hesitant?

"Been doing this nearly ten years," Malik said and tugged on his cigarette.

"Since the War ended?" Altair asked in a careful tone.

"The same," and then coughed a little as he tried to talk and breathe smoke at the same time. The smoke cloud dissipated quickly. "You learn how to look."

"There any suspects?"

"No. Body was found early this morning, abandoned. Doesn't fit the pattern either," Malik frowned, hand holding his cigarette up to his mouth, his eyes watched the smoke trickle up from the tip. Nothing about this kill fit the description except for the execution. Wrong time, as the others were during the day, they also weren't in restaurants like the others and Anthony was just… left here.

"Copy cat?" Altair suddenly asked, taking a saliva sample. Malik had heard of some new saliva tests you could run, but Ezio hadn't used them.

"Hmm?" Malik had only been half paying attention.

"Could be a copy cat. Saw the murders in the papers and decided to do it themselves."

"No," Malik said taking a drag.

"No?"

"We haven't released any information about _how_ they were murdered. No, this guy's good, there's only one stab wound. He knows what he's doing and doesn't make mistakes. Except…"

"Except?" Altair looked up at him.

Malik wasn't looking at him, but at something he'd missed before because he'd been waiting for Altair. "You see that?" he pointed at a blotch on the ground, close to the building.

Altair unfolded from where he was and went to look at it. "Foot print," Altair said, looking back at him. "Blood print," he added.

Malik went over him and looked beyond it as Altair went to get something from his tackle box. He saw another of the prints a few feet away. "Another," he called to Altair who nodded and marked out the boot print before going over to the one next to Malik. Malik went to see if he could find more. He flicked his cigarette away as he found a trail of them, going down an alley, and then they stopped, facing a wall. Malik looked up, there was no windows on the first floor but they started at the second floor. Altair was putting something by each print before getting to the last one.

"This can't be it," Altair said and looked around for more.

"He just vanished," Malik said with a frown.

"Blood could have dried," Altair pointed out, "it dries out faster than water and really doesn't leave as much residue as you'd think."

"But look," Malik said, "he comes around from across the alley and then they stop here. Not to mention look how far apart they are."

"Sprinting?" Altair asked, he had his notebook out and was taking notes in it, "would explain the lengthen stride."

"Probably," Malik agreed. "But still, where'd he go? And why was he running for this wall?"

"Maybe he saw he had blood on his shoes and was zigzagging?" Altair suggested.

"Maybe," and looked up where a fat drop of water landed on the brim of his hat. "Shit. You have some stuff?"

"Yeah, most of it," and Altair was still writing. "… Could I see the body when it goes to the mortician?" he asked.

"I'll see what I can do," Malik said and more rain was starting to fall. "Lets get out of here," Malik said and propelled Altair out of the alley. "Officer," he called, "lend me your car." The man looked reluctant to do so but handed Malik his keys as Altair went to get his things. "Get the body to the mortician, clean up. We're done here," and they nodded as the rain continued. Not hard, but a miserable drizzle. Altair bounced back over to him, "Get in," and he opened the door to the car they were using. Altair slid into the passenger side. He heard someone calling for a clean up as he got into the driver's seat.

"Well," Altair said, looking at him. His case in his lap, "what do you think?"

"It's different but I think that-

"No, I mean. Was I okay?"

Malik snorted as he pulled away from the crime scene, "Kid, you were fine," and Altair smiled at him brightly.

—

The city's main mortician worked primarily at an upscale funeral home. He was a robust man about Malik's age with flame red hair and looked like he enjoyed dressing nice under his thick apron to keep all manner of guts and fluids off him during the embalming process. Malik had met him once, for the last murder, and decided he liked the man.

"That's a bloody kid," the mortician, Shaun, said upon seeing Altair when Malik brought him to see the body, Shaun was also disturbingly English for a guy who'd mostly grown up in Chicago. Perhaps not the best thing to hear upon opening the front door but Malik was heard worse. "Detective, what are you bringing a kid to a funeral home for?"

Malik sighed a little, "This is Altair, my kriminalist."

"Kriminalist? He looks like he should still be sucking on his mum's tits," Malik looked at Altair and the college kid was blushing.

"Shaun," Malik said patiently, "we're here to see the body."

"He's still a kid," Shaun said. "You sure some lad is ready to see this sort of thing? It isn't for the faint of heart after all," he said seriously.

"I can handle it," Altair said firmly.

Shaun looked at Altair, looked at Malik, and then looked back at Altair before saying, "If you say so," and then he turned around and walked off. Altair gave a wary look at Malik who just tried to smile reassuringly at him before following Shaun, taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack just inside along with his hat. Altair did the same with his jacket before having to quickly catch up with Malik and Shaun.

They were led downstairs to where the cadavers were kept, Shaun flicking on the lights as he went. It didn't really register to Malik. He'd been in places plenty of times, but Altair was wide eyed. "Now," Shaun said and ran a hand through his red hair, pushing it back and out of his face, "if you're going to ralph, kindly do it in a bin and not on my floor. If you do you're the one cleaning it up," he informed Altair.

"_Ralph_?" Altair asked.

"Vomit," Malik shrugged. Altair just looked at them both like they were slightly nuts. "So, lets see him," Malik added to Shaun.

"Right, right," and Shaun turned to the lined up cadavers and inspected the tags on their feet. "Anthony White, correct?"

"That's the one."

"Here he is," and Malik went over to stand on the other side of the gurney, Altair next to him. "Bin's over there in case you need it," Shaun told Altair and pointed.

"I'm fine," Altair said firmly. Shaun shrugged.

Shaun pulled back the white sheet from Anthony's face, and then down to his stomach. He'd already cut this one open, the traditional Y shaped wound on the chest stitched shut again. "Cause of death seems pretty straight forward, stab to the neck," he tipped the head, exposing the large puncture wound that had torn into the neck and throat. Without all the blood it looked strange and comical. "I'd say it was done by the same guy as your other dead blokes," he nodded a little.

"Can I?" Altair asked, looking at Shaun.

"Can you what?" Shaun asked.

"Touch it?"

They both looked at the kid, "Sure," Shaun said after a moment. Altair reached out slowly, his hand was trembling a little to press against the neck, right by the wound. Malik watched him. Altair didn't look green, or like he was about to hurl. He looked interested, and not clinically so.

"So what else?" Malik drew both of their attentions away from Altair to the matter at hand.

"Well, it wasn't nearly as clean as the others. The others died quickly, I think this one actually died from suffocation and not actually bleeding out."

"What?" that made no sense.

"The others bled out rather quickly after a puncture to the jugular. Anthony died of asphyxiation. I checked the entry wound, there are two holes."

"What?" was really all Malik could say and Altair was looking now as well.

"One entry wound, but it forks. Anthony was stabbed twice. Once to rupture the esophagus, though it missed the jugular. Maybe in this time Anthony tried to fight him off. But he suffocated. Afterwards the killer stabbed again, into the same hole, much more precise this time, cut the jugular as we're used to seeing with these," Shaun reached around and grabbed something. "I also found these in his stomach," he showed Malik two teeth.

"Are they his?"

"Looks like it, he's missing two," he pried Anthony's mouth open and without even flinching stuck his fingers in the dead man's mouth. "A premolar on the left side and then a molar further back as well. See?" he asked angling it towards Malik.

"No… I'll take your word for it," he said even as Altair leaned around him to look inside. "How'd they get in there?"

"Well the killer came in like this," and Shaun motioned, drawing a line through the bottom of his Anthony's mouth, "on the first go. The trauma might have dislodged some teeth there that were already loose. Or they could have been in there a while, got into a fight or somethin'."

"So basically you don't know."

"All I can do it guess," Shaun said.

Malik pulled on his face, "Okay. Anything else?"

"That's it really. Bruising on the hands show he _definitely_ tried to fight off his attacker. Didn't do him much good though," Shaun made a face, puffing out his cheeks a little. "That and the double stab are really the only things different from the others."

"Was he drinking?" Altair asked.

"Huh?" they both looked at him.

"Was he drinking?" Altair looked at Malik, "All the murders were also people who'd been drinking before hand."

"How do you know that?"

"I read the case file? It's right there."

"No it's not."

"Is so. I'll show you," Altair said.

Malik frowned at him, "Was he?" he asked, looking at Shaun.

"Yes actually, he was. Not sure what kind, but his stomach was full of it."

Altair grinned, "Another connection," he told Malik triumphantly.

"Yeah," Malik nodded slowly. "Thanks Shaun."

"Any time," Shaun said, "Well, not really. I hate doing these things, especially on kids like this. Yikes," he looked at poor Anthony White and then pulled the sheet back over him before showing Malik and Altair back upstairs. Malik pulled on his coat as Altair jammed himself into his jacket and pulled his notebook from an inside pocket and began writing as Malik got his hat and shook hands with Shaun before leaving.

"That was interesting," Altair said.

"Yeah, a blast," Malik said, hands going into his pockets.

Altair looked at him, "How can you not find your job interesting? People don't just get to go into a funeral home and see cadavers. You act like it's nothing."

"After I got home I don't find the dead very interesting," and Altair froze.

"Right, sorry," he said meekly, "I didn't-

Malik waved him off, "It's fine. Now how're your tests going?" he asked as he pulled out his cigarette case.

"Okay. The school lab is for anyone, so I'm having to share," Altair shrugged, then beamed at him in the span of three seconds. "_But_, since it _is_ a police investigation I get top priority for it."

"That's great," though Malik was mostly humoring him. This kid was going to wear him out. He was really way too enthusiastic about everything. How the hell was this kid even real?

"Anything else today?" Altair asked.

"You need to show me where it says in those case files that they were drinking," Malik reminded him.

"Sure," Altair nodded. "So they're still at your hotel right? You didn't give them back to the police yet?"

"No, they're there," Malik had mostly finished his cigarette and then a thought came to him. "Do you smoke?" usually people Altair's age were all about it.

"No," Altair shook his head, "I don't really see the point."

Malik looked at him, then at the cigarette in his hand, "Good idea, they're awful," and he took another, long, drag. Altair snorted a little in amusement. "C'mon, lets get going and get it over with," and they walked away from the funeral home to the police car at the curb.


End file.
